by Avis Hickman-Gibb
Don’t be late.
He’d said that clearly, even before she’d left the house; impressed it on her, with the flat of his hand. Now her curfew was approaching, and she was going to blow it.
Briefly, for a moment, her eyes flickered over the passing houses from the lorry cab’s window; a small part of her longed for them to be those on her road. To be going home on time, but to no home she’d ever known in her twelve years on Earth. And even if she was, he’d find some oversight, some slight lapse or slip – putting her in error, making it her fault. She was miles away now, and she was going to keep on going; rattling along towards freedom.
Gripping her phone tightly, she watched as the seconds slipped away. Ha! There it was, past! She was over time. Let him swallow that, with knobs on.
No turning back?
She hoped not, else she’d have to pay a penalty – like she always did.
It wasn’t her fault; it never was. And she’d had enough of sucking up to him.
Avis Hickman-Gibb lives in Suffolk with her husband, one son and two cats. She’s had stories in Every Day Fiction, Twisted Tongue, The Pygmy Giant, BackhandStories, Boston Literary Magazine, Short Humour, The Ranfurly Review StaticMovement, Microhorror, Bewildering Stories & The Shine Journal. She’s currently working on a book of short stories and a novel but is addicted to writing flash fiction.